Road to Damascus
by Stephen Greenwood
Summary: An ongoing series of vignettes detailing Hank and Karen's lives during her pregnancy in 1994. Based on the montage sequence at the end of 2x10 In Utero.
1. It's Better to Burn Out Than Fade Away

**ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
by Stephen Greenwood**

**Vignette title: It's Better to Burn Out Than Fade Away  
Rating: PG for this chapter; may change for others.  
Spoilers: Based on the montage scene from the end of 2x10 In Utero.  
Disclaimer: The good ideas belong to Tom Kapinos and Showtime. Whatever's left is mine.**

**Summary: The first in an ongoing series of vignettes detailing Hank and Karen's lives during her pregnancy in 1994. Immediately after mailing the letter, they walk through Central Park.**

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1. _it's better to burn out than fade away._

Central Park is burning with the homage of a thousand lit candles. Cobain's soul resides in each one, dances around the wick, does not fade away like the wisps of smoke and old, almost-lost memories temporarily called to arms. The citizens of New York beat back the snatching hand of death from one small corner of the city, just as they did fourteen years ago when a Beatle was shot outside the Dakota. Lennon had Strawberry Fields Forever; Cobain had Nirvana.

They gravitate closer as they walk, two planets in ever-decreasing orbits, nuclei colliding, Big Bang: The Sequel. Life already grows within her. She talks and he listens, not out of duty but of interest, and he finds their connection as delicate as the flames all around, as hopeful and also as fleeting. He nearly lost her once already today, nearly let her leave without knowing, and he doesn't think he has the energy to do it again. The heart-shaped box holding his secrets has her name on it; she is the bearer of the key.

He slips an arm around her shoulders and keeps walking.

The feel of his warm body pressing into her left side is an anaesthetic and she almost forgets what she is saying and why they are here and who they are. To be is enough; there is the answer to Hamlet's age-old question. There is no need to conjugate verbs and make things complex, no need to overcomplicate matters by throwing irrelevant pronouns into the mix. Mine and yours becomes ours. You and I suddenly equals us.

Hank tilts his face and kisses Karen softly, the touch of his lips too gentle to scald even though she feels a rush of warmth come over her body. He is slow and unassuming; she is grateful and pleased. He smiles and silently tells her not to be nervous when she moves to bite her nails. His hand leaves invisible prints on hers; his fingers are loose shoelaces tying their bodies together.

As they walk past, a candle burns out. Just like Kurt wanted.


	2. Fill Your Paper

**ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
by Stephen Greenwood**

**Vignette title: Fill Your Paper With the Breathings of Your Heart  
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.  
Spoilers: Same as chapter one.  
Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

**Summary: Second in an ongoing series. Hank versus the typewriter.**

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2. _fill your paper with the breathings of your heart._

Again, the muse is being a fickle bitch. Crumpled balls of paper, white roses, pepper the floor around the trashcan; when he can't write, everything else gets shot to shit as well, including his aim. He decides nothing is more daunting than a blank page staring back from a typewriter, daring him to mark its surface, mocking his ability and making him self-doubt. It's usually only weed that makes him this paranoid. Maybe the muse is still high from his last joint.

_Either that or PMSing_, Hank decides, chewing on a pen.

His notes for Novel Number Two are tacked to a wall behind him for safekeeping. The plot pays rent to live inside his head; he thinks he'll have to spend the credit on a private eye to find out where his words went. _Probably shacked up with a bunch of hookers and a pile of blow_. They need to realise the party's over and start holding down nine-to-five again; he has a kid on the way to provide for.

Flexing his fingers, limbering up, he glares warily at the typewriter; it is a predator to be feared, one near the top of the food chain. The keys are teeth, ready to bite and take a chunk out of his ego. He begins to tap at letters that become words and then sentences, and his frown deepens with every line added because it all sounds so false and contrived, relying on coincidence as much as a Dickens story. And in this day and age, there has to be a reason, a motive neatly spelled out for the Internet generation.

He's starting to scowl like a two-year old when a pair of arms slide around his shoulders from behind. The glower disappears from his face as Karen leans over to read his mangled efforts at creativity and he finds himself smiling at his ridiculous use of metaphor and the stiff tone of dialogue that somehow sounds like Bela Lugosi in his head. A glance over his shoulder confirms she is smiling, too.

"The guy who wrote this must be a fucking asshole," he says, making light of his morning failings.

"That's the father of my child you're talking about," she protests.

Grinning, he pulls the paper from the typewriter and tosses it towards the wastebasket. It misses and adds to the garden growing around the can. Karen laughs and squeezes him tighter. He reaches for a blank page.


	3. My Kingdom For a Horse

**ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
by Stephen Greenwood**

**Vignette title: My Kingdom For a Horse  
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.  
Spoilers: Same as chapter one.  
Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

**Summary: Third in an ongoing series. A walk to remember.**

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3. _my kingdom for a horse._

Strolling along Central Park South on a sunny afternoon, holding the hand of the woman he loves, Hank can't help but feel the spring in his step. He labels himself 'a fucking sap' as soon as he thinks it but he can't take it back; he isn't even sure that he wants to. Maybe he's spent too many years wallowing in self-pity and now a change is tipping the scales, upsetting the equilibrium and upgrading his life: Hank Moody, 2.0. In beta.

Karen has been smiling all day. He doesn't know why and he thinks it would break the spell if he dared to ask. Instead he takes things as they come; today they happen to be affectionate and carefree. He enjoys the vacation. He'll save the drama for his next novel or his next life, whichever comes first. For now he's content with calm waters, and, it appears, so is she.

The customary parade of horses stand guard next to the sidewalk, a sea of yellow cabs shooting past mere feet away. Karen tugs on his hand and he goes without protest, a rarity he ascribes to this unusual lightness of being that just might be happiness. (He can't be sure, having never felt quite so elated before. He still finds himself wondering why he is so thrilled at knocking up a woman he'd known for two hours when they did the deed, but each day reveals some new fact about her and he just can't get enough. He's swapped coke for Karen; she's far more addictive and less damaging to his psyche. He never suspected he'd say that about a woman but these days he's constantly surprised.)

Hank allows himself to be pulled towards the horses, pleased that blinkers no longer cover his eyes, too. Karen's joy is plain to see and although Hank used to scoff when he heard women described as angels in sunlight, he sees that now as well.

_You absolute fucking sap_, he thinks again, and smiles.


	4. A Kind of Poetry

**ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
****by Stephen Greenwood**

**Vignette title: A Kind of Poetry  
****Rating: PG for this chapter  
****Spoilers: Same as chapter one  
****Disclaimer: See chapter one**

**Summary: Fourth in an ongoing series. Rodin's Thinker sits at a breakfast table in a New York apartment.**

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4. _a kind of poetry_

Rodin's Thinker sits at a breakfast table in a New York apartment. Karen finds herself mirroring his actions as she studies him, and she imagines them as bookends with her pregnant belly in between, being supported by both. They're getting close to nine months now; at times she feels like she's swallowed the moon. She told him once, and he'd laughed and asked which Jimmy Stewart wannabe had pulled it down for her. And then he'd wrapped his arms around her and their baby, quietly telling her it must have been the sun because of how she glowed.

Sometimes he says just the right thing at just the right time.

But now he is silent, barely blinking as he looks inside himself. They have a doctor's appointment later today; he is always quiet beforehand. The first ultrasound had stripped him of any wisecracks and he's since had the same reaction every time he catches a glimpse of their child, like he can't quite believe what's happening even though he's had over half a year to prepare. They have all of the essentials – crib, onesies, a seemingly endless supply of diapers – but it's the other stuff, the dad stuff, that makes him want to reach for the whiskey at nine in the morning.

Sometimes he's just hit with an overwhelming surge of awe and excitement and fear, and when that happens he doesn't quite know what to do.

Six weeks, give or take, and he'll be presented with his son or daughter and expected to be a father. He hopes it will come naturally once the kid is in his arms but there's a big part of him, the insecure part he usually masks with false bravado, that gives him cause for concern: can he do this? He can't plot out his life like he can his novels and while he tends to thrive on spontaneity, he's scared that his specific brand would scar the child forever. Hank doesn't have a good role model to turn to; he hasn't even hung out with kids since he was one. He's read the books on how to be a good dad but all he knows for sure is that his caffeine and nicotine intakes are likely to shoot through the roof in the weeks following the baby's birth.

Sometimes, though, his mind presents him with an image and he thinks he can handle it: teaching his kid how to read. Helping with homework. Playing ball inside the apartment, or maybe dress-up for a tea party with Barbies. Doesn't matter. He'll be there because this child already has him wrapped around his or her little finger, and Hank makes a silent promise to be the best damn father he can be.

There's half an English muffin he can't stomach on a plate before him. Nudging it in Karen's direction, he says, "Eat. Gotta keep your strength up."

"Great," she replies dryly. "More pounds for me to shed later." She reaches for the muffin regardless.

"Well, you're gonna drop, like, ten once the baby's born anyway."

"Ten? Jesus Christ, Hank, I hope not. I'm having a baby, not an elephant. And that is not an invitation to comment on how I might look like one."

He grins and bites his tongue. "Elephant pregnancies are twenty-two months long," he offers helpfully.

Karen swallows without choking, although she coughs and reaches for the orange juice, glaring at him. "I'm just shy of nine and I feel like I'm about to burst. Probably look it, too."

He sobers and studies her from across the table. Yes, she's gained weight, but she's supposed to, and she definitely doesn't look fat. She looks _pregnant_. She has a shine to her skin, her eyes, that wasn't there before, and she smiles a lot. She waddles more than she walks and she goes through mood swings faster than he used to get through one night stands. She eats the weirdest combinations of food and she wears maternity underwear that look like sacks, and she struggles to tie her shoes and shave her legs. She's the most beautiful woman he's ever laid eyes on.

"I hear the beached whale look is the in-thing this year," he teases lightly.

"Until I see it on the catwalk, I'll remain highly skeptical."

Karen manages to get to her feet with relative ease but her hand is intercepted as she reaches for the now-empty plate. Hank twines his fingers with hers and looks her in the eye as he says sincerely, "You're amazing. I don't tell you often enough but that doesn't mean I don't think it."

She smiles and rubs his knuckles with her thumb. Sometimes, he says just the right thing.


End file.
